Dalton, Tymber - Stoneface (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) Read online

  Stoneface

  Gwen has a cheating ex, a paranoid best friend, crazy overprotective and ultra-religious parents…and is a successful erotica writer. Forced to overcome her fear of flying to search for her sister in Rapid City, Gwen doesn’t expect to run into her internet buddy, Tim. Better yet, Tim’s boyfriend, Jack, is a police detective. They welcome Gwen and her older brother, Liam, to stay with them during their search.

  Jack earned his “Stoneface” nickname after personal tragedy hardened his heart. He loves Tim, but Gwen stirs up painful memories that make Jack’s feelings for her suspect in his own mind. It doesn’t help that he falls in love with her.

  Unfortunately, finding their sister leads to more problems. Shattered trust, broken hearts, and Liam coming out to their parents in a defiant showdown make Gwen question her priorities. Can she risk her heart again trying to break through Jack’s “Stoneface” façade?

  Genre: Contemporary, Ménage a Trois/Quatre

  Length: 83,464 words

  STONEFACE

  Tymber Dalton

  MENAGE AMOUR

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  ABOUT THE E-BOOK YOU HAVE PURCHASED: Your non-refundable purchase of this e-book allows you to only ONE LEGAL copy for your own personal reading on your own personal computer or device. You do not have resell or distribution rights without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner of this book. This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload to a file sharing peer to peer program, for free or for a fee, or as a prize in any contest. Such action is illegal and in violation of the U.S. Copyright Law. Distribution of this e-book, in whole or in part, online, offline, in print or in any way or any other method currently known or yet to be invented, is forbidden. If you do not want this book anymore, you must delete it from your computer.

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  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  IMPRINT: Ménage Amour

  STONEFACE

  Copyright © 2011 by Tymber Dalton

  E-book ISBN: 1-61034-858-3

  First E-book Publication: September 2011

  Cover design by Jinger Heaston

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2011 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  Letter to Readers

  Dear Readers,

  If you have purchased this copy of Stoneface by Tymber Dalton from BookStrand.com or its official distributors, thank you. Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book.

  Regarding E-book Piracy

  This book is copyrighted intellectual property. No other individual or group has resale rights, auction rights, membership rights, sharing rights, or any kind of rights to sell or to give away a copy of this book.

  The author and the publisher work very hard to bring our paying readers high-quality reading entertainment.

  This is Tymber Dalton’s livelihood. It’s fair and simple. Please respect Ms. Dalton’s right to earn a living from her work.

  Amanda Hilton, Publisher

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  www.BookStrand.com

  DEDICATION

  I’m lucky that I’m married to a very patient, tolerant, loving man who supports what I do, and who is the anchor of my support system. Thank you, honey. You have no idea how much I love you. Many thanks also to Mr. B. He knows why. And my gratitude to both Siren-BookStrand and my readers, who have allowed me to keep doing what I love doing.

  STONEFACE

  TYMBER DALTON

  Copyright © 2011

  Chapter One

  Good morning, gorgeous! I received my ARCs yesterday from your editor. Kissy-huggy! You totally rock, Go-Go girlfriend! Love ya! - TimE.

  Gwen propped her chin in her hand and blurrily stared at Tim’s e-mail on her laptop screen as she slurped her coffee. She’d only had three hours sleep the night before.

  That’s what I get for taking Dickweed’s call.

  Richard—AKA Dickweed—Callahan, her ex-husband. Drunk dialing, of course, but when he cried about how he wished he hadn’t screwed up their marriage, she was just pitiful enough she let him talk for a little while longer.

  Until he propositioned her for a blow job. That’s when she started screaming at him, once she realized he was the same damn scruples-challenged horndog he always had been, and only called her looking for some easy midnight nookie.

  His girlfriend had broken up with him that morning—oh, surprise!—for cheating on her. He got drunk and horny and called Gwen at one in the morning. She only answered when her cell phone rang the Psycho theme she used for him because she worried maybe he’d been in an accident or something.

  It’s my own damn fault. I should know better.

  She let out a disgusted sigh. Would have been better if he’d been in an accident. Of course, after that rant and hanging up on him, she felt so angry and wide awake that she couldn’t get back to sleep and lay in bed tossing and turning and concocting some pretty horrible revenge fantasies that would most likely end up in a book at some point.

  Fucking asshole. A benefit of being a writer was that she could kill her ex off in multiple books and not only never do a day of jail time, but get paid for it in the process.

  Cheaper than therapy.

  Staring at her laptop, she smiled at Tim’s e-mail. At least something about her morning was going right. He was such a sweetie. He reviewed books on his store’s blog and had fallen in love with her and her writing.

  Well, as in love with her as a gay man in a committed relationship could fall in love with a straight woman who wrote male-male erotica.

  If she had to start a crappy, sleep-deprived, six-freaking-thirty morning at her computer, at least it opened with a sweet e-mail from Tim.

  She set her nearly empty mug aside and tapped out a reply.

  Kissy-huggy backatcha, babycakes. Hope you enjoy it. You owe me coffee one of these days. Snugs and Hugs, Go-Go.

  She hit send.

  It had been their routine for almost three years, ever since Tim discovered her and started reviewing her books. He’d dubbed her “Go-Go” because of her initials G.O., Gwen Oxford, even though she wrote the erotica under the pen name Gwenna Olmsford. Also, because he said she churned out books faster than a go-go dancer shimmied. He’d meant it as a compliment, not a complaint, because he was always begging her to “write more, write faster.” He always signed “kissy-huggy,” and she always signed “snugs and hugs.”

  She’d never met him in person, but would like to one day. If she could ever find the time. She rarely left her town, it seemed like, much less made it across the country to Laguna Beach, California, where he lived. That would be one hell of a drive from her home twenty miles east of Columbus, Ohio.


  Flying was not an option. She did not fly.

  Ever.

  She drained the rest of her coffee and returned to the kitchen where she refilled her massive mug. It would be a three-pot morning, no doubt about it. Screw using the French press, too. She needed massive quantities of coffee on tap at all times to deal with a morning like this without committing homicide.

  By seven o’clock she had poured mug number three and posted her morning Twitter and Facebook updates. She didn’t dare blog today. Not when she wrote, “Writing first kill scene between heroes this morning,” when she meant to type, “Writing first kiss.”

  Ugh. Goddamned Dickweed. Divorced three years, and he still fucks up my life.

  God only knew how badly she could screw up a blog if she tried to write an entry when this tired and cranky.

  A little after eight, Amy’s car rolled into her driveway. Gwen stared out the front windows of her dining room, where her desk and laptop sat, and let out a deep sigh. Her older sister’s arms were filled with folders.

  Gwen grabbed her mug and headed for the kitchen. By the time Amy made it into the kitchen and dumped the armload of folders on the counter, Gwen had started another pot of coffee.

  “Please tell me that’s my tax paperwork?” Gwen asked.

  Seeing her up close, Gwen thought Amy looked like she didn’t feel very good even though her dyed blonde hair had been perfectly styled, as usual, and her makeup flawlessly applied.

  Amy examined a long, perfectly shaped and lacquered nail. “You wish. It’s not bad, though. It’s all the stuff from your lawyer about the divorce. I picked it up from their office yesterday afternoon. You can put it back in storage now, as long as Dickweed doesn’t try any more bullshit.”

  Gwen shook her head. “Don’t say that man’s name to me this morning.” She related the drunk-dialing episode.

  Amy studied the files. “Oh. Well, then maybe you should hold on to these. He might try another bullshit motion to get money out of you.”

  “I’ll castrate him if he does.” He’d tried three different times, despite their divorce being finalized, to get alimony from her, or get his alimony payments to her reduced since her writing career had taken off, despite the fact that she still made far less than he did as an orthodontist.

  Asshole.

  “Enough about Dickweed,” Amy said as she tapped a fingernail on the table. “I’ve got an idea. What do you say I do some research for you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve got a conference in Rapid City next week. I can go hit the local monuments and stuff for you. Rushmore, Crazy Horse, all those. There’s a lot to do out in that area. It’d make great background info.”

  “Evil day job?”

  Amy dropped her gaze to examine her fingernails again. “Yeah. Tourism conference.” Her evil day job was working part-time for the county’s tourism board, in addition to helping Gwen as her assistant. Well, when she wasn’t home at their parents’ house and helping care for their brother.

  It bugged Gwen that she couldn’t put her finger on it. “What’s up with you today?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “You’re…off somehow. Is something bothering you? Did you get into it with Dad or Mom?” Wouldn’t be the first time, although they didn’t take out their ire on Amy nearly as much as they did Gwen.

  Amy shook her head. “I need some downtime, that’s all. Vacation. Breathing room.”

  “You need to get laid. You’ll be forty next year. Use it or lose it.”

  Her sister’s brief smile told Gwen the truth. This wasn’t just a business or research trip. But she probably needed an alibi to extend her stay out there.

  “Okay, spill it. Who is he?”

  Amy blushed and shrugged. “Nothing serious, okay? Just a guy.”

  “Not even worth sharing his name?”

  She blushed again. “Maybe if it gets serious.” Amy had always been the closed-mouth child. While Gwen and Liam could talk about anything to each other, Amy did good to share what she’d had for breakfast, much less deeply personal details.

  “Okay, I’ll leave you alone. Go, have fun. Enjoy yourself.” Gwen’s phone rang on the counter to the tune of “Wipe Out.” Gwen’s best friend, Ruth. Calling about her daily crisis, most likely.

  Amy stood and left the room.

  Gwen didn’t have time to wonder what else was really going on with her sister, even though she sensed something more bothering her than just a secret man on the side. “What’s up, Ruthie?”

  “I think Bob’s cheating on me.”

  Oh, this day suuucks. “What?” Gwen contemplated adding a heaping portion of Jack Daniel’s to her coffee and heading back to bed a little before lunch.

  Hell, it’s five o’clock somewhere.

  “I think Bob is cheating on me. I swear he is.”

  “You say that every year about this time. Tax time just happened. He does taxes for a living. He works a lot of hours. You promised me last year when we went through this that you’d ask your doctor for extra meds this year.”

  “No, I really think he is cheating on me this time.”

  “You thought that last year. And the year before that. And every year.”

  Ruthie’s voice turned petulant. “I thought you’d be sympathetic.”

  “I am sympathetic.” Gwen eyed a bottle of Valium sitting on top of her microwave with her vitamins and Tylenol, three pills left, from back surgery she’d had two years prior.

  Damn, out of date. She tossed it. “I’m sympathetic every year when you think he’s cheating, and every year I’m helping you apologize to him for acting like crazy jealous psycho woman.”

  “I called one of the numbers on his private cell. A woman answered.”

  Gwen took a calming breath. “And?”

  “She answered like she was happy to hear from him, and she said his name. Then when she realized it wasn’t him calling, she hung up and wouldn’t answer when I called back and now the number’s no good.”

  “Creepy women calling me and asking me if I’m schtooping their husband tend to make me want to hang up and hide too, honey.”

  Ruthie’s tone changed, uncertain. “Do you really think I’m overreacting?”

  “Probably. You’re always overreacting. Have you eaten breakfast yet?”

  Now Ruth sounded like a little girl caught misbehaving. “No.”

  “Okay, honey, what’s our rule?”

  “I eat and take my meds before I call you.”

  “Go eat. Did you take your meds?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s our other rule?”

  “If I feel paranoid it means I probably didn’t eat when I took my morning meds.”

  Gwen took a deep breath to help minimize the amount of snark in her tone. “Riiiight. Sweetie, go eat and call me back later. Love you.”

  “Love you, too. Thanks for putting up with me, Gee.”

  Gwen felt guilty for her irritation. She literally was the only friend Ruthie had left. She gentled her voice even more. “Go on, and call me back when you feel better.” She hung up and laid the phone on the counter.

  Amy returned to the kitchen, still looking odd. Gwen wondered if maybe Mercury had gone retro again and no one remembered to tell her.

  “What is it this time?” Amy asked. “Is her foil hat on a little too tight? Green men in her toilet?”

  “I know you don’t like her, but she’s a good person.”

  “She’s a basket case.” Amy sat at the kitchen table. “I don’t know how you put up with her.” She went back to examining a nail. “Damn sure don’t know how her husband puts up with her,” she grumbled.

  Gwen turned on her. “Go what she went through and tell me you wouldn’t be three steps from a rubber room,” she angrily sniped.

  Ruthie used to be a had-her-shit-together bank manager. Until four years prior, when she was three months pregnant and taken hostage by a bank robber whose getaway drive
r spooked and drove off without him when the women resisted. She’d been working the isolated drive-thru booth with another teller, and the men had jumped them when they emerged after closing. Ruthie had offered herself as a higher-value hostage in exchange for the teller he’d grabbed first, a single mom with three small children.

  When a police SWAT team rescued her from a hotel room eight hours later, she’d been beaten, raped, tortured…and ended up losing the baby. A baby they’d tried to have for five years and two IVF attempts.

  Between Ruthie’s post-traumatic stress disorder, panic attacks, and other trauma-related issues as a result of the attack, she was nearly homebound. Other than their family, she had no friends left.

  Besides Gwen.

  Ruthie’s husband, Bob, was a sweet man who had stood by his wife’s side during it all, including her multiple hospitalizations and suicide attempts. Bob wasn’t like Gwen’s horndog ex. He wouldn’t cheat on Ruthie. He loved her.

  All Gwen had to do was keep reminding Ruthie of that.

  “Okay. Back to research,” Gwen said to get the subject off Ruthie. “What did you have in mind?”

  “You mentioned you wanted to write a series of romances set out west. I could do some footwork for you.”

  “You want an excuse to use up your vacation time and be able to deduct it.” And have more time with your mystery man, she thought. “When will Bob have my taxes done, anyway? I filed the extension after the other bullshit with Dickweed.” Considering Ruthie’s state of mind this morning, Gwen didn’t dare call her back to ask if she knew, and didn’t feel like calling Bob, either. “Did he give you a timeframe when you dropped the stuff off?”